


dracula dracula dracula; suck me first i might get back at ya

by badwrites



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Behavior, Crack, Explicit Consent, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 22:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20217064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwrites/pseuds/badwrites
Summary: There are less destructive ways to entertain himself, but Frenchie isn't into moderation.





	dracula dracula dracula; suck me first i might get back at ya

It's mid-day, the tiresome hours right after lunchtime where the afternoon begins to drag.

Not that Frenchie would be able to tell by the daylight, of course. The safehouse wouldn't be a safe house at all if it had windows.

The real tell here (other than their actual phones, watches, various time-telling electronic devices...) is the honest-to-goodness hell of cable daytime television that he's basically being held hostage by.

It's not all that bad. Kimiko's head is peacefully resting on his shoulder, comfortably leaning on his body as she absorbs the flashing images. She even lets him gently comb his fingers through her hair twice or thrice. Yes, she'd eventually yank her head away and flee to the other side of the couch, but would eventually re-approach and settle back down as soon as he'd whisper apologetic words, pat the space next to him.

It's nice, this warm feeling of empathy for a fellow damaged soul. He too, feels like a wounded animal; more of a kicked dog to her trapped panther. Even existing in the same space as her is a pleasure, in a way, though he is always slightly terrified.

It doesn't really change the fact that this day is so _boring_, left to their own devices and ending up watching David Attenborough narrate over footage of Alaskan wildlife. Which, to be fair, are better than the infomercials she didn't allow him to switch away from for a good 45 minutes.

Butcher left first today, at an obscenely early time; 6, or so? Frenchie can't remember. But he was awake at the time -- he's been dosing very heavily on uppers nowadays, for alertness' sake -- and did ask him where he was headed to, out of courtesy.

The callous response of, "I'm off to fuck your sister, you nosy prick," was not a wholly unexpected one.

"Oh! Have fun!" he said, and waved politely as Butcher slammed that metal door so hard dust fell from the ceiling. "_Au revoir!_"

Hughie would attempt to sneak out about three hours later, stepping carefully with his backpack slung across a single shoulder.

He's started, frozen mid-step as Frenchie turns his head to peek at him behind the couch. "'Allo, Hughie!" He says cheerfully, enjoying the way he winces. Like a young boy, hand caught in the cookie jar. "Hmm, headed somewhere?"

"No," Hughie blurts, and then begins to stammer (as he always does): "Actually, sorry. Yes? I'm, uh. I'm going grocery shopping."

Mother's Milk's voice, as observant as ever, chimes in loudly from the adjacent room. "Didn't you go grocery shopping yesterday?"

"Uh, maybe!" The kid is turning red around the ears, fidgeting with the strap of his bag as he melts under their scrutiny. Even Kimiko has turned and placed her arm and head on the back of the couch, staring at him with that undecipherable expression. He really looks like he wants to melt into the ground, at that moment. He says, slowly, "I think we're out of eggs?"

"I'm afraid you're wrong, my friend," Frenchie patiently explains, with a passive(-aggressive) little smile. "Myself and Kimiko only used eight of the twenty-four pack to bake the last batch of eclairs."

"Oh. Did I say eggs? I -- I mean chocolate. Honestly, I really crave chocolate?"

"I see! I'm sorry, are you," he lowers his voice, in faux sympathy: "On your period? Heavy flow, my friend?" Kimiko, if she understands, continues to look completely uninterested.

It's that which takes Hughie aback; his expression turns a little hurt, and even a little angry. "If I told you I was, would you _please_ leave me alone?" he asks, now hotly.

"Alright, alright, _excusez-moi_," Frenchie raises his hands up, in a defensive little gesture. But he lowers his hands, and squints as he leans over the couch. Kimiko has already gotten bored, turning back to the TV. Conspiratorially, he asks: "You are spending more time with your Starlight woman, yes?"

Hughie is already pacing towards the door. As he flings it open, he quickly shouts, "No!" then, "bye!" as he closes it.

Of course he is. Little Pinocchio.

So, it's been just the three of them all day. Or, really, the two of them; Mother's Milk has been doing all his best in staying out of Frenchie's way, and by that extent Kimiko's way. Off in the other room playing with his phone, fiddling with the guns. Toys to distract him.

The boredom has been eating his brain alive; occasionally rising to ply himself with today's lively cocktail of adderall, modafinil and MDAI. If he could have, he really would have knocked himself out and to simply sleep the day away. Unfortunately, it's almost as if a swarm of super-powered murderers are looking for their heads right now.

_...this noble grizzly bear is in the right place, at the right time. In only a few hours, a barrage of salmon..._

He taps his fingers on his knee. Kimiko is leaning over with her chin in both hands, intently watching slow-motion footage of salmon jumping up an Alaskan river.

_...the sockeye survives its pilgrimage only by the virtue of having large numbers..._

Frenchie cranes his head back. Mother's Milk isn't in his immediate view, but he knows he's somewhere in the other room, the furthest wall. He turns back, watching the documentary. Scratches at his stubble, and considers something.

_...he's not alone. An enterprising fox sneaks in, risking its life for a taste of..._

He cranes his body back again, then back towards the television. _Really_ scratches at his chin, and then decides firmly with a nod to himself. Very carefully, he extracts himself from the couch. When Kimiko's head swivels at him, alarmed that he's leaving (or standing suddenly, anyway), he gives her a reassuring tight little smile, raises his hands up defensively. Her posture, hunched shoulders, immediately relax.

In a soothing tone, he reassures her: "I'll be right back, _ma brave dame_. I'm just going to try... poking the bear." He grins, now, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ah? Get it?"

She squints slightly from the corner of her eyes; then, looks back at the TV. Probably not. Well, he thought it was funny.

Approaches the room in slow and long strides, then leans casually against the doorway with an arm. Yes, Mother's Milk is here, hiding just out of view of them this entire time. He's slouched in one of those petite little folding chairs against the wall, smiling at his phone as he types with both thumbs in landscape mode -- no doubt to his much-loving loving girlfriend, _mwah mwah_.

There are assault rifles nearly stacked against the wall, nearly sparkling clean. A clear box of neatly stacked and organized boxes of ammunition has been assembled next to them -- as if it weren't obvious enough, with a neatly written label of "AMMO" in sharpie.

He too must have run out of things to occupy his time. Good thing Frenchie is here to offer himself as another, possibly messier, alternative. He can Marie Kondo him up. He digs his thumbs into his pockets and lazily saunters over to stand about a meter away from MM.

MM ignores him, opting to continue to tap on his phone.

Frenchie, insistent, takes another step forward to really lean over him. Crosses his arms, clears his throat, taps his foot.

MM now _pointedly_ ignores him, raising his phone extremely close to his face to obscure the view of Frenchie entirely. Oh, how dare he.

He is very tempted to slap MM's phone out of his hands and scream "_notice me, you rude bitch!_" at the top of his lungs. However, one; he doesn't want to alarm Kimiko, which he definitely would, and two; he wouldn't mind a fun violent scrap instead, but there are multiple high-power firearms within MM's armspan.

So, options: A few flit through his mind at varying levels of disruption and dirtiness; he opts for the one that seems the least disruptive, middle-strength filthiness. He simply takes another step closer, only inches away from his legs touching M.M's knee's and calves.

Then, he gets on his knees.

There's a moment's pause, as he wait there with his head tilted. Mother's Milk slowly lowers his phone to his chest, and squints at him suspiciously. "Motherfucker. What do you want?"

"I don't know, _mon ami_," he drawls, and lowers his head so he's peering from under his eyelashes. "What do you think I want?"

"An ass-whooping?" he immediately quips. "Rogaine? Methadone? A better childhood?"

Damn; he winces at that one. Well, that _was_ a good set-up he gave him. Hmm.

So, he rubs at his own thighs, bites his lip. Drags his gaze from MM's piercing glare down to his groin, then back up.

"Well, what?" asks MM, somehow completely clueless and still impossibly annoyed. Self-inflicted blindness, probably.

Frenchie, now becoming increasingly desperate as to how to get through his thick skull, tries to wiggle his eyebrows and suggestively jerk his chin in the direction of his crotch. As he does it, he's keenly aware he might be looking more off his rocker than sexy -- judging by the way that MM screw his face up.

"No, junkie. I _don't_ have any drugs on me."

The exasperated sigh he's been holding forces its way out of his chest, and he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "_Mon dieu_. Are you really _that_ fucking dense? Or is this just a, ah, play _thing?_"

"Hey --"

He raises his finger, and angrily jabs it in the direction of MM's zipper. "_This_," he says, angrily shaking it. "The _D_. Your penis. Your," he throws both hands up, then. "whatever euphemism you want to call it. _Come on_."

"What?" asks MM, his expression falling from irritated to legitimately dumbfounded. "Why?"

Frenchie's eyes squint. He shakes his head, and tilts his head up as he puts his hands on MM's knees. "Why _why_? Why do I want to suck your dick?"

"You," MM stammers, and stiffens. But he doesn't recoil, and doesn't peel Frenchie's hands off. "_Why?_"

"Because I would enjoy it? I assume you will as well?" his voice is slowing, as if spelling this out to him. And lowering, as he tries to come off more seductive.

MM's phone is still pressed flat to his chest with. The other hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose, as he screws his eyes shut hard. "Wait, wait. Wait a second. I. Hold on."

"Yeah?" Frenchie asks him, softly. "Is that a yes?"

"I have a loving girlfriend and daughter," he rationalizes, mostly to himself.

"Okay," he says, slowly. "I am not sure how that's relevant, but that sounds very nice. Congratulations?"

"Also, I hate you?"

"_Super!_" Frenchie says, cheerfully. "You can choke me with it, I don't mind. I think I'd prefer it, actually."

He can feel the muscles of one of MM's knees twitch a little, at that. He grins; he _is_ interested.

But, in the interest of being a decent partner, he does begin to back off. "Look, I'm not going to suck you off unless you _want_ me to suck you off."

"Wait," MM goes. Frenchie pauses, just about to get up to his feet. "Do I have to agree to it? Can't you just _do_ it?"

He wrinkles his nose at the suggestion. "_Pardon_, you expect me to forgo getting a clear 'yes' in giving you oral sex for the sake of your conscience?"

"Well." He squints at a spot of the wall, reconciling the idea. He settles with a, "yeah?"

The things that so-called monogamy does to men.

"Area man found with cock in another man's mouth, said he fell? No, _merci_." Beginning to stand, he says, "forget it, I --"

"Hey, Frenchie," MM interrupts, spreading his legs underneath his hands. "Suck my dick."

"Oi, _oui_," he goes, and immediately scrambles for his zipper, mouth watering.

He's a very simple man. Pussy and penis are his two-favorite _p_-words. Well, maybe behind pistols, profiteroles, psilocybin...

Zipper undone, he shoves MM's pants lower on his hips; he oliges, lifting them up the chair for access.

Boxer briefs, fine. That bulge already thick and defined through them? Nice. The pink teddy bear print? "Aww," he says, reflexively, looking up at him with a grin. "Valentine's day, eh?"

"What?" MM peers through the crook of his arm, which was slung over his face to begin with. "Oh, no. Goddamn it. The," he waves his hand. "laundry day. Please continue."

"Please?" Frenchie repeats, pleased and low. His hand fishes for his dick through the fly of his underwear. He grabs it; admires the heft to it, its warmth in the palm of his hand. "Is that what you said? Please?"

"Yeah", he says, voice hoarse. "_Please_."

Satisfied, he pulls him out of his fly. Admires how it feels against his hand when he gives a slow, dry pull. How his foreskin moves, hides his flushed dark purple head.

"Like what you see?" asks MM, as he lazily lets his lips drag up its length. Pauses, there, head to the side of him. Likes that patch of hair on him, spreading down his balls, peeking out his fly. Very human.

"Eh," Frenchie teases him. He nudges his dick with the side of his face, just a little. "I mean it's fine, man, but I wouldn't hire you for a porn shoot."

"Man, don't say that shit to me. I'm _sensitive_."

He feels his own chest shake as he says, delivery split between comical and flirtatious: "We'll see about that." Then, he slowly takes him into his mouth, hand at the base.

It's been a while since he's been with a man, perhaps a few months; he's a little rusty at first, trying to figure out how to curl his lips back and keep his teeth at bay. A minute or two, slowly dragging himself up and down at just the span of his oral cavity, at first.

Sucking dick: Sort of like riding a bicycle? However, Frenchie is _much_ better at oral sex than bicycles.

He looks up. MM isn't even looking at him, hands off of him entirely. Still covers his face with his arms crossed, hands clenched. Breathing hard through his nose. Thinking of someone else, maybe. None of his business.

Which is fine; Frenchie doesn't mind setting his own pace. Enjoys that musk, the heat, the heft of it on his tongue. Slowly, lazily grinds his palm through his own jeans as he does. Doesn't intend to get off now, but god damn he'll remember this for later.

It's not long that he gets used to the feeling of him in his mouth and being careful with it, quickens his pace and begins to dip him into his throat. Gets to enjoy that hiss through MM's teeth, his barely stifled moans, the way his legs jerk against his hands.

He loves unweaving people, in any sort of way. Especially through this sort of method.

When he takes him down all the way -- really has to squirm his head down to get _all_ the way down to the base -- he can feel his entire body tremble underneath him, hears him curse, "shit, shit, shit, oh _god_." He'd congratulate himself if he could. Unfortunately, he's occupied...

...but it doesn't take long after that. A few minutes of alternatively switching from shallow, hollow-cheeked sucking and pulling at his base and occasionally swallowing him up entirely and he's already proclaiming that, "fuck, I'm gonna --".

Frenchie, being the good friend as he is, presses his nose into his pubes as he comes. Doesn't spare him the mess, after all, and holds him there a good moment after he stops trembling, balls stopped contracting; come already shot so far down his throat he barely noticed.

(there was this one bdsm club where they held periodic casual contests. he won 'best in erotic asphyxiation', so you could say he had a talent for holding his breath...)

He pulls himself off slowly, capturing the string of spit and semen that pulls between his head and his lips with an open hand. Brings it up to his mouth, and licks it off his palm.

Looks up. MM is finally looking down at him, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Wow, you're nasty," he says. His chest rises, and he looks exhausted. But he's smiling.

"I'm just trying to spare you some mess," he says, grinning with pink lips as he tucks MM back into his pants. "That wasn't so --"

His grin fades as MM's expression suddenly crumples into something that can be described as _very upset_. And then, slowly, backs away as he cradles his face with his hands.

MM begins to wallow, and narrate to himself: "Oh, god. Monique. I..."

Frenchie blinks at him, and wipes his mouth. "_Sensationnel_. That was the fastest sex-to-marital guilt transition I have ever seen." He jabs his finger towards the other room, "I'm just gonna," then speedwalks there. Does his best to ignore the sound of a man going through a crisis, and sits next to Kimiko. She's still glued to the television, leaning and enraptured.

_... the cub is stuck in the tree, and needs the mother bear's help to make his way..._

* * *

Oh, what a mess that was. Not literally, of course, he didn't get a drop anywhere, but Mother's Milk has spent the evening snapping at everyone and being generally moody. Ironically, the opposite of what receiving a blowjob should do to a man.

Eventually Butcher, after witnessing him tell Frenchie to "go skullfuck yourself on the Eiffel tower, frog," holds his hand up. "Alright, alright. What is going on between the two of you, _this_ time?"

"Nothing," MM goes, as Frenchie casually says, "I just gave him a blowjob."

Hughie freezes, a nighttime spoon of Frosted Flakes hovering halfway to his mouth. MM goes, "god_damn_ it, Frenchie." Butcher rubs his temples. Kimiko doesn't react at all.

"Frenchie," Butcher says, slowly, as Hughie resumes eating with extremely slow bites. "Why'd you give him a blowjob?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?" Frenchie says, defensively. He poses the deep question: "Why do we eat pussy?"

Butcher turns, and looks at Hughie. Hughie blinks, and looks at Butcher. "Hughie," he asks faux philosophically, "why _do_ we eat pussy?"

They all watch Hughie finish chewing and, when he's not done chewing because it takes too long, watch him cover his mouth with his hand when he asks, "are you ashking _me_?"

Butcher turns to Frenchie, crossing his arms. "The question really should be, 'why'd you give _him_ a blowjob?' He's taken, you goddamn doorknob, you dumb cunt. Nobody wants to explain to their significant other how they cheated on them with a sewer rat."

"Thank you," says MM in indignation, clasping his hands together. "I got _more_ shit to worry about --"

"-- stop sticking your dick in your colleague's mouths." warns Butcher, pointing. MM's hands fall to his sides.

Frenchie shrugs. "I don't think it's so big of a deal, eh? What, a man gives another man a hand, you scratch my back and I scratch yours -- "

"-- hippy-dippy free-love bisexual bullshit, fuck right off with --"

"-- I mean, women, _gentilles femmes_, they are very intuitive creatures, I am sure they understand when men are bored and alone --"

"Guys, uh, can you please not --"

"_Quoi, garçon?_ Where are those fucking groceries, huh?"

"If you _ever!_" goes Butcher, tone high enough to interrupt them all, "get his dick in your mouth ever again, I'm gonna run in there and slap it right out."

"Ouch," goes MM, horrified.

"Oh, yeah?" Frenchie challenges, flustered by the attention and the scolding. "How would you know about it, _exactement?_"

"I'll take Compound V just for the ability to sense when you're being a massively selfish fucking cocksucker." He pauses, and nastily adds: "Like right now, cocksucker. Fucking dumbass."

Frenchie angrily huffs to himself, pride hurt by the talking to. MM doesn't look much happier: He looks down, shuffling his feet.

"Just think, next time, about whose genitals are in your mouth," Butcher says, disappointed and disbelieving. "We have enough drama here as it is. Now... how about we actually get some _work_ done tonight?"


End file.
